LETTERS FROM HOME: SOMEONE WHO ALWAYS FOUND SOMETHING TO LOVE

March 23, 2000

Dear Leslie,

After returning home Saturday from a solo trip to Florida, I settled into a bath and noticed DC had propped a newspaper conspicuously against the edge of the tub. On the front page was news DC could not bear to give me in person. The five-day-old paper reported the death of one of our friends.

Now I understood why DC sounded a bit odd when I'd phoned home earlier in the week. A mixture of feelings erupted in me: Sorrow for losing our friend, regret for not being here to comfort DC, a taste of anger that DC did not give me the choice of coming home, and love because I knew she thought she was doing the best thing for me.

Our friend Judy had a challenging life of 71 years. She had cerebral palsy, was disabled in an era when nothing more or less was expected of people like herself than to stay home. Instead, she got herself a master's degree and a demanding job.

She was engaged to be married in college but the engagement was broken and she never married. She had many friends, though. DC thinks it's because Judy was never judgmental. You could tell her anything about yourself, and people did.

DC's family was old friends of hers. DC was taken to Judy to hold when she was 4 days old. DC's sister, Danel, took each of her three daughters to Judy to hold after they were born. Judy was a regular guest at Thanksgiving and Christmas.

When DC and I decided to get married, DC required me to go to Judy's house to get her blessing. Afterward, Judy told her I'd straightened out and would be OK.

Judy was the librarian and theater reviewer at the newspaper when I first went to work here. As far as I know, she found something to love about every play and musical she saw, and the people who'd had the pluck to get up on those stages loved her back for that.

She also was scrupulous about using language. A little card taped to the wall above her desk read: "Le mot juste." The right word.

In 1976, I wrote stories for the newspaper's Bicentennial edition, most of them based on the newspaper's archives. I probably asked her 50 questions a day. Inquisitiveness never bothered her. Stupidity did.

She could throw big league temper tantrums when nonsense triumphed or when someone patronized or underestimated her because she was disabled.

I began reviewing theatrical performances after Judy no longer could physically manage them. It was daunting because she was an institution. I set my course by her: Find something to love.

We took her to plays at the university until she no longer could stand to sit in her wheelchair for two hours. Faculty members and students too young to know her greeted Judy like an old friend. DC and I were her aides-de-camp. She was the main event.

Judy's health deteriorated through the 1990s. A number of times, the police phoned us in the middle of the night to say Judy had fallen and needed help getting up. DC kept a key to her house.

Judy loved that house, which originally was occupied by a man who'd fought in the Revolutionary War. Finally she accepted she no longer could continue to care for herself.

Once she moved into the nursing home, DC would load Hank and Lucy into the van and pick Judy up for a joy ride. In warm weather they'd come back to Themis Street to talk to neighbors and so she could see her house and yard and the newspaper building across the street.

The dogs pulled her wheelchair up and down the sidewalk as Judy held their leashes. They led her down the steep hill on Broadway to the river, where some people became afraid Judy might fall in. But Judy rode her own horse as a kid. She liked thrills.

Occasionally, she liked a drink of Canadian whiskey or a glass of white wine, too. Her rum balls and homemade eggnog were famous. She taught DC the recipes.

A few years ago, Judy received a poem in the mail. It was unsigned, but she knew it was from her former fianc. DC said the poem was good, filled with "mots juste."

In the end, Judy struggled to endure the pain caused by tendons that sometimes became so tight they had to be surgically released. Her speech became increasingly difficult to understand. Eventually she no longer could type and was frustrated that she could not read the newspaper because her eyesight was failing.

In her last few months, Judy had to remain in bed. DC lamented that she couldn't take her out to see the stars and the trees anymore. She wondered what I thought of strapping her down in the bed of our pickup truck. She knew Judy would have gone along with it.

DC devised a plan to smuggle the dogs into the nursing home in a suitcase. But when she quizzed the nursing staff about pets, expecting them to be aghast at the idea of being invaded by furry beasts, they encouraged her to bring the dogs in.

Lucy laid in bed with Judy. Hank refused to join them because he's afraid of heights. But Judy's death was a particular loss to Hank. The number of people who can safely pet him now is reduced to eight.

The obituary published after Judy's death last week listed a jaw-dropping number of organizations she belonged to and awards she'd won. It said she is survived by a cousin and three friends. That is inaccurate. This town was her family. Her friends are uncountable.

Love, Sam